Well-on that green-lidded box, her name was painted in yellow; Dorothy Crump were the words. Crump? Yes, but they gave it to her, because (like the box) 't was her mother's; Ready to hand-though of course she had no joy in the name: She had no kin-and indeed, she never had needed a surname ; Never had used one at all, never had made one her own: "Dolly" she was to herself, and to every one else she was "Dolly"; Nothing but "Dolly”; and so, that was enough for a name. Thus then, her great, green box, her one undoubted possession, Stood where it was; like her, "never went nowhere at all; Waited, perhaps, as of old, some beautiful Florentine bride-chest, Till, in the fulness of time, He, the Beloved, appears.— Was there naught else in her room? nothing handy for washing or dressing? Yes s; on a plain deal stand, basin, and ewer, and dish: All of them empty, unused; for the sink was the place of her toilet; Save on a Sunday - and then, she too could dress at her ease; Then, by the little sidewall of the diamonded dormer-window She at a sixpenny glass brush'd out her bonny bright hair. Ah, what a poor little room! Would you like to sleep in it, ladies? Innocence sleeps there unharm'd; Honor, and Beauty, and Peace Love, too, has come; and with these, even dungeons were easily cheerful; But, for our Dorothy's room, it is no dungeon at all. No! through the latticed panes of the diamonded dormer-window Dorothy looks on a world free and familiar and fair: Looks on the fair farm-yard, where the poultry and cattle she lives with Bellow and cackle and low-music delightful to her; Looks on the fragrant fields, with cloudshadows flying above them, Singing of birds in the air, woodlands and waters around. She in those fragrant meads has wrought, every year of her girlhood; Over those purple lands she, too, has follow'd the plough; And, like a heifer afield, or a lamb that is yean'd in the meadows, She, to herself and to us, seems like a part of it all. BEAUTY AT THE PLOUGH Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet, cool air of October, High up on Breakheart Field, under the skirts of the wood, Dolly was ploughing: she wore (why did I not sooner describe it?) Just such a dress as they all-all the farm-servants around; Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine and a fitness Color and pattern and shape suited so aptly to her. First, on her well-set head a lilac hoodbonnet of cotton, Framing her amberbright hair, shading her neck from the sun; Then, on her shoulders a shawl; a coarse red kerchief of woolen, Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting her berry-brown skin; Then came a blue cotton frock- dark blue, and spotted with yellow Sleev'd to the elbows alone, leaving her bonny arms bare; So that those ruddy brown arms, with the dim, dull blue for a background Seem'd not so rough as they were softer in color and grain. All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd and kilted, Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf of the leg : Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various color Striped on a blue-gray ground: sober, and modest, and warm ; Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by home-knitted stockings; Ending in strong laced boots, such as a ploughman should wear : Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to her stature; Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a horse, at the heels. After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from the furrows, Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, to yours! And to the vanish'd hand, and to the ear Whose soft melodious measures are so dear To us who cannot rival them how strange, If thou, the lord of such a various range, Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's tale! For this was no prim maiden, scant and pale, Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight Of noble verse with arts rhetorical Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song Bliss in her servile work; bliss deep and full In things beyond the vision of the dull, Whate'er their rank: things beautiful as these Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies Surely this servant-dress was but a foil Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky, Did she, interpreting the poet's soul, MUNBY-ISA CRAIG KNOX-EDWIN ARNOLD Bridle her own, that when the tale was done I look'd at her, amaz'd: she seem'd like one Who from some sphere of music had come down, And donn'd the white cap and the cotton gown 247 As if to show how much of skill and art May dwell unthought of, in the humblest heart. Yet there was no great mystery to tell : Isa Craig knor "It keeps the scent for years," said he, (And thou hast kept it); "And when you scent it, think of me." (He could not mean thus bitterly.) Ah! I had swept it Into the dust where dead things rot, Between the leaves of this holy book, A worthless and wither'd weed in look, The bloom of my life with thee was pluck'd, Thy circles of leaves, like pointed spears, My heart pierce often; They enter, it inly bleeds, no tears The hid wounds soften; Yet one will I ask to bury thee In the soft white folds of my shroud with me, Ere they close my coffin. The Silence and the Darkness knew! So is a man's fate born. He cometh, reaper of the things he sow'd, Sesamum, corn, so much cast in past birth; And so much weed and poison-stuff, which mar Him and the aching earth. If he shall labor rightly, rooting these, And planting wholesome seedlings where they grew, Fruitful and fair and clean the ground The fairest slave of those that wait shall be, Mohtasim's jewell'd cup did hold. The Caliph's face was stern and red, He snapp'd the lid upon the cup; "Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said, "Till such time as I drink it up. Wallah! the stream my drink shall be, My hallow'd palm my only bowl, Till I have set that lady free, And seen that Roumi dog's head roll.” At dawn the drums of war were beat, She pointed where that lord was laid : They drew him forth, he whin'd for grace: Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said "She whom thou smotest on the face Had scorn, because she call'd her king: Lo! he is come! and dost thou think To live, who didst this bitter thing While Mohtasim at peace did drink?" Flash'd the fierce sword-roll'd the lord's head; The wicked blood smok'd in the sand. "Now bring my cup!" the Caliph said. Lightly he took it in his hand, As down his throat the sweet drink ran By God! delicious is this draught!" AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA HE who died at Azan sends This to comfort all his friends: Faithful friends! It lies, I know, I can hear your sighs and prayers; Sweet friends! What the women lave the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Loving friends! Be wise, and dry one Is not worth a wistful tear. Allah glorious! Allah good! Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; -- Be ye certain all seems love, View'd from Allah's throne above; Thou love divine! Thou love alway! He that died at Azan gave This to those who made his grave. |